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"Runaway train," I say.
"What?"
"A train wreck implies I've already crashed. If I'm hell-bent on my own destruction, I'm still heading for that crash. Which is probably worse, because the crash is still coming."
His eyes narrow as if I'm mocking him. I push my shades onto my head so he can see I'm not. He only snorts, his all-purpose response.
"Are you warning me off in case I try to renege on the deal? I won't. I made it; I stick to it, and I genuinely thank you for anything you did to get Diana in."
"Six months."
He resumes walking. Before I can speak, he leaves the path and heads into the forest. It doesn't seem to be a conscious change of direction. He just walks that way as if the path veered.
"She can only stay six months?" I say. "Okay, that's--"
"You. They insist on it. If you don't show up, they'll kick her out."
"Who's they? The selection committee?"
"Council."
I nod. "The town council. Mayor and so forth. Guess you can't escape politicians even in a town like that."
I give him a wry half-smile, but he doesn't notice, just mutters under his breath. Then he stops short as the shade of the forest creeps over us, and he stares as if the trees have just risen in front of him.
An abrupt turn and he heads back to the path. "The council will say it's a two-year stay, but you get six months. That's between us. I'll work out an exit strategy."
When I go silent, he says, "And this is one reason I don't want you there. I'm offering you escape, and you don't give a shit."
"No, I--"
"You don't think you deserve to escape. You killed a man, and you should pay the price."
I tell myself there's nobility in that, honour and justice. But in his voice, all I hear is disgust, like I'm a penitent flagellating herself.
"I'll go," I say and as I do, I realize I'm not all that upset at the prospect. There's a case up there. An experience up there. A new and unique experience. I'm chomping at the bit to ask for more--is it a string of robberies, assaults, a murder?--but I know it's not the time. Not just yet.
"You might not want me there, sheriff, but you won't regret it. There's one thing I'm good at, and that's my job. I might be able to help with your problems."
He shakes his head. "I've seen your record, detective. Fucking impressive. But that's here. And where we're going? It's not here."
ELEVEN
I have ninety-six hours to prepare for my disappearance. Diana has twenty-four. I expect my extra three days come courtesy of the sheriff. As a cop, he knows I shouldn't walk away from my job.
I'm about to disappear. I'm not going to fake my death. I'm not even going to vanish in the night. The art of disappearing, it seems, is not to disappear at all. You just leave ... after extensive and open preparation. Cancel all appointments. Pay your bills. Give notice at your job. Tell your friends and family. Make up a story. Lie about where you're going, but make it clear they shouldn't expect to hear from you for a few years. If possible, give those messages at the last moment, when it's too late for them to argue.
The core concept is simple: give no one any cause to come after you. We're even supposed to overpay our taxes, as painful at that might be.
There is some misdirection involved as well, because no matter how careful you are, a friend or family member might try to file a missing person's report. So you leave hints about where you've gone. Calgary, Valerie recommended for us. Don't say that outright, but run computer searches on apartment rentals and jobs in Calgary. Leave an "accidental" trail in case someone decides to hunt us down.
I tell my sister I'm going. It's a brief conversation. We exchange duty calls at Christmas and birthdays and that's it. She expresses no surprise that I'm moving with Diana again. It's what she expects from her feckless little sister.
I set up my departure at work by talking to my partner about Kurt's shooting and mention bad memories resurfacing from my own assault. I tell him about the attack on Diana and vent my frustration with the system. I'll quit at the last moment, with an e-mail to my sergeant, cc'ing my union rep. I spend most of those four days at the station, getting my cases in order, so they'll know, looking back, that I'd been preparing for this.
It's the day before I'm due to leave. Kurt was released this morning, and he's ignored the doctor's orders to go straight to bed. "Had enough of that shit," he said. We're in the bar, early afternoon, the place still closed. He's not due back to work for two days, but he's prowling about, bitching like Martha Stewart come home to find her mansion in disarray.
"Fucking Larry," he says, yanking near-empty bottles from the bar. "Doesn't replace anything until the last drop's gone, no matter how many times I tell him. You let a bottle run dry, someone's gonna ask for a shot so they can stick their hand in the till while you're in the back getting the replacement. And look at the bar. Idiot hasn't wiped it down since I've been gone." He reaches for a dishrag, then wrinkles his nose. "Is this the same one I left?"
